Happy haunting!
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Longer Trips are Lifesavers
Long trips, short trips, any trips out on the water are money in the Bank of the Soul. We can catch a sunset paddle, make a full day of it or head off on a weekend outing, sleeping on the beach and enjoying a mini adventure. These short trips are typically experienced with a high level of stimulation. Odds are we’ll pack a cell phone along, not only for emergencies, but to say hi to significant others from the evening campfire.
We live in a high stimulation culture and our recreation is an expression of that. We are encouraged to get out and do stuff, hit it hard and make it happen. And I’d be the last person to knock the approach. Every sporting passion I’ve ever had was pursued like a flaming comet. But there is another kind of trip—the long trip—and it is a different breed all together.
About a decade ago, three friends and I attempted to start an adventure school based in Washington’s San Juan Islands. One of the tenets reflected in our mission statement was the importance of getting our kids out into the wilderness long enough for them to actually arrive—three weeks minimum. Between the mindset of preparing to depart and the mindset of locking onto home near the end, there is a narrow window of time when a person feels as if she is fully present “out there.”
Like the 30 seconds we’re supposed to wait after hitting the reset button on a modem so things can default to their natural configuration, a long trip into the wild provides a similar defaulting. A chance to unplug, settle in and get into rhythm with the primacy of the natural world.
When it first became obvious to me that I needed a long pilgrimage trip, I planned it out well ahead of time. Then I spent months alone exploring the coast at my own pace, settling down on a beach when I felt like it, or by a river where the salmon were running, or stuck in a pea gravel cove when a storm rolled through. Like Robinson Crusoe, I focused on the necessities of thriving on a remote seashore where the chop wood, carry water Zen principle dominated all. I found myself feeling as free and present as I could remember ever having been; the caliber of it was child-like.
On the water, I dropped right into the paddling archetype of one man traveling the coast in a small boat. The repetitive rhythm of dip and pull, the rise and fall of the boat and knifing of the bow soothed my soul. The busy planning, worrying and executing of the meta trip that consumes such a disproportionate share of shorter journeys dropped away. Life became largely experiential, exactly what I needed.
So how do we pull off a trip like this? By realizing the importance of it, first of all. If we know that for the truth, then we commit to doing it, looking for the first responsible opportunity that comes along. After college, before family, after family, between careers or during mid-life crisis, to name a few popular windows. Don’t wait for retirement if you can do it beforehand. Make a plan and put it on the calendar. Defend it with your life. Do it, and do it alone.
This article originally appeared in Adventure Kayak, Early Summer 2013. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read the rest of the issue here for free.
Necessary Evil
Paddling used to be as primal a need as food or sleep. Now it fits into my life about as conveniently as polo or skydiving.
I fell in love with a woman who’s afraid of the ocean. The same thrills that drew me to kayaking in the first place—bobbing on open ocean swell in a tiny boat, navigating by the frenetic boom of waves on rock in a shroud of fog—scared the bejeezus out of her.
Accepting this was my first lesson in the great compromise of marriage. Despite all we share in common, a handful of the things we most love will never be understood by the other.
Our biggest argument ensued after I left for a kayaking expedition two weeks after our honeymoon. I didn’t see the problem. I mean, it’s not like you’re supposed to suddenly change everything you do just because you’re married, right?
Now that my wife and I have moved to the city and have two children, kayaking has reached a crisis point of arch-irrelevance. To the Inuit hunter, the kayak and paddle were his livelihood. For the modern This is 40 dad who doesn’t happen to be a kayak guide or instructor, the mid-size hybrid and iPhone have taken its place. Pretending otherwise introduces a tension of trying to maintain a relationship with a competing reality. It’s like having an affair, being a mountaineer or becoming an Ironman triathlete. Trust me, I tried that too (the triathlete, not the affair). Entire books have been written about the lives these pursuits have destroyed.
Money got tight and I sold my beautiful, British racing green expedition kayak to a mid- dle-aged family man. Recently, I heard he was fighting to hide the boat from his wife in divorce proceedings. Letting go of that kayak strengthened my marriage, so I’m not entirely surprised to hear it worked the other way for him.
The kayaks I still have sit idly in the backyard gathering tree resin and pigeon poop. Last year I went almost the entire season without paddling. Then I discovered that a raccoon had completely chewed out my kayak’s front bulkhead and foam thigh braces.
That explains all the screeching I heard out the window at night, which sounded not un- like a chattery version of, “ What are you doing spending so much time in that kayak?” And now there’s one lonely raccoon with foam stuck in its teeth that won’t be having any babies this spring—but at least I’m still getting laid.
If I did convince my wife to go kayaking, we’d need an armada worth several months’ mortgage payments. When did kayaking become so expensive? I can’t imagine justifying the purchase of even one more piece of gear. I’m as likely to buy a ticket to the moon.
Every time I go through the old kayak gear from my bachelor days, I thank God I bought it all when I still could. I hear a cash register ringing as I caress these carbon fiber and Gore-Tex artifacts. The Easter Island heads of my youth—monuments to the decadence of times past.
A select few of these items—despite their high potential resale value—have survived wave after wave of de-cluttering our tiny downtown house. Partly due to their totemic value, but also because, deep down, I am still a believer. Days spent on wilderness coastlines taught me who I am, the values that keep me going through the day-to-day.
Like the raccoon sleeping away the long winter in my kayak, munching on its insides, my paddling self is merely hibernating. Dreams of the open ocean still gnaw at my bones.
Tim Shuff has dedicated his summer to repairing varmint damage and getting back on the water.
This article was originally posted in Adventure Kayak, Early Summer 2013. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read here for free.
Canoe Sailing Technique
Just south of the treeline in northwest Manitoba, the Cochrane River runs fast and tempestuous along the Saskatchewan border. Rigging two canoes into a catamaran, we set sail to travel up the river for half its 200-kilometre length. The jury-rigged boat turned out to be so proficient that we ascended some of the smaller class I rapids without difficulty or having to paddle.
Every year I see a proliferation of makeshift boats, sails aloft, heading down big lakes and rivers. Canoe sailing is a great adventure and a wonderful way to make headway and combine a rest day in one shot. But it can be a dangerous undertaking if not done right—never underestimate the vagaries of wind, weather, distance or tide.
There are as many ways to rig canoes for sailing as there are sailing terms. But it doesn’t have to be that scientific or complicated. Many canoeists simply tie off a jacket or small tarp to paddles and hand-hold a quick sail that works well, until their arms give out.
The seafaring Paravas warriors of Tamil Nadu, India, used the square-sail catamaran. It can’t be beat for speed and stability. The typical, quick, field-assembled catamaran that can easily and swiftly cruise down a lake can be completely rigged and ready to shove off in less than an hour.
How To:
1) You will need enough wood for cross supports, masts and the gaff pole. I often carry trimmed spruce poles for the mast and gaff pole because it isn’t recommended that paddlers start cutting down trees to build sailboats. In some areas, there’s typically a lot of available deadwood that can be used for cross-supports.
2) Catamaran two or more canoes together with cross-supports, keeping a distance of two feet between canoes.
3) Rig a single mast or an inverted “V.” Make sure the mast is tied off securely.
4) Tie a tent fly or a kitchen tarp to the gaff pole and lash it to the top of the mast. The loose bottom corners of the sail can be tied off to the running lines and adjusted to trim the sail and prevent luffing (flapping).
5) A wide-blade paddle or traditional steering-board can be used as a rudder, usually dipped and held from the starboard side of the two boats. Spray decks can be fastened down to keep the wash out, or just have bailers handy.
This article first appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping, Early Summer 2010 issue. For more expert tips, download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it here.
Video: Canoe Sinking Prank
Check out the hilarious reactions in this Just For Laughs Gags prank when it appears the canoe is sinking.
Daily Photo: Bald River Falls
This photo was submitted to Rapid Media by Matt Hudson. Want to see your photo here? Send your whitewater shots to [email protected].
Video: Made in Canada Episode 4
Join filmmaker Mike McKay of Five2Nine Productions as he visits some of Canada’s classic whitewater runs to capture both the rivers and the local paddlers who know them best.
“Living in Vancouver, British Columbia allows kayaker and chemist Steve Arns to pursue his career and his sport with equal passion. When work is done, Steve loads up his kayak, leaves the city and heads to the river. Join Steve and his friends as they shred the Box Canyon of the Ashlu, a Class V kayaking classic right out Vancouver’s back door.”
From NRS Films.
Video: Made in Canada Episode 3
Join filmmaker Mike McKay of Five2Nine Productions as he visits some of Canada’s classic whitewater runs to capture both the rivers and the local paddlers who know them best.
“Organized by river guide Mathieu Bourdon, a rafting trip down Quebec’s beautiful, historic Magpie River gives a group of Innu women a chance to strengthen connections with each other and their heritage.”
From NRS Films.
Daily Photo: River Days
Relaxing after a long day on the Hyland River. From its headwaters in the Logan and Selwyn Mountains, the Hyland is a fast and technical river. As it grows in size it slows and has sections of relaxed paddling, interspersed with shorter sections of exciting whitewater.
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Daily Photo: Midnight
“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.” ~George Carlin (Killarney Lake, Killarney Provincial Park, ON)
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